


Night King and Ice Queen

by CerseiSassQueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Biting, Bondage, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Giant Spiders, Hair-pulling, Ice Play, Loss of Virginity, Mindfuck, Monsters, Outdoor Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Sensation Play, Threats of Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 00:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18767209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerseiSassQueen/pseuds/CerseiSassQueen
Summary: In the aftermath of Mance Rayder's defeat, a lone spearwife flees the confusion and carnage, evading capture by the southron king...only to fall into the clutches of a far crueller sovereign.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend, who was craving that freaky frozen dick. 
> 
> A weird blend of showverse and book canon. Sorry for any errors, georgraphical or otherwise; my WW/NK/Free Folk lore is rusty af and I'm kinda just making it up as I go along.

You had not been prepared to feel so much, to mourn so greviously, when the gathered might of the Free Folk was shattered under the mailed fist of a southron king, your people broken, smashed into brittle shards like the frozen surface of the Milkwater beneath a stone. There was no time to grieve at first, during the carnage and the chaos, your desperate flight into the woods, running for your life alongside men and women who might once have raided your village and cut you down without question, as well as those whom you counted as kin. It does not matter now; you are one people, one tribe, one blood, brought together with a single purpose under Mance Rayder's banner...

Before Mance, you had not cared for the company of others, preferring to walk alone in this world, but the King Beyond the Wall had changed that, had given you a renewed sense of belonging and pride in your people. You felt at home in that vast encampment as you never had in your village, thriving on the heady atmosphere and the fierce bonds of kinship, ready and willing to fight alongside your brethren against the ghosts of the Long Night. But now...now you are alone again, once the ragged remnants of the Free Folk host begin to peal away into smaller groups and disperse into the darkness, limping away to lick their wounds and scrabble for survival, or otherwise to die in the rising snows. You had listened to the whispered debates before setting out on your own, fleeing the pained desperation of the other survivors, resenting their hopefulness, their despair, the bonds of their cloying fellowship. Some would regroup and attempt to surge on force against the Wall again, simmering with fresh hatred for the Crows and the Stag King, crying out for vengeance, for Mance and their fallen kin, ready to throw their lives away, the brave fools. There were others planning to sail around the Bay of Pigs, or to hide away in the caves, and more still who decided to throw their lot in with Mother Mole, following her to Hardhome on the strength of a prophecy. But you would rather die here in the woods than out there, in that haunted ruin by the sea...and your mind turns now to the Fist of the First Men, that mighty jutting mass of rock rising to the forefront of your thoughts, unbidden and quite without reason. Mayhaps it is a primitive echo of something long forgotten that calls you to that lonely peak, the desire to end your days in a sacred place, in the company of your ancestors and the warrior-shades of the First Men...to see the pink-blush of dawn on the horizon from on-high, one last time, before you succumb to your wounds, or the cold, or else fall upon your blade...

_Or more likely, it is only because you want to be alone, to die as you had lived, stubborn and strong to the very end, now that you have no reason to deny your own nature._

You were a lone wolf before the Free Folk came together as one, content in your own company even as a child, roaming the wilds as soon as you were old enough to walk unaided, weaned from your mother’s teat and blessed with a true name at last, when it was certain that you would survive the trials of infancy. Not that it mattered; three names you have been given, in your short span of life in this world, but only the last one stuck. _Birdie_ was your milk name, because you were small at birth, as pink and hairless as a fledgling hawk, a tiny thing without feathers or talons. At the ceremony on your third nameday, you shed the anonymity of babyhood to take your place in the world for good or ill, no longer a scrappy little birdling, sexless and swaddled in furs, but a sturdy girlchild with milk-plump limbs and curious stirrings in her soul; _Eydis_ , the lucky one.

You were Eydis, for a time, until you earned another name, the wanderlust in your soul apparent from the moment you pulled away from your father’s calloused hand to stray beyond the boundaries of the village, drawn to the shadowy forests and snow-capped peaks of the Frostfangs by some unknown force. Your flowering brought warriors and clan leaders to your father’s table, men seeking to claim you, to trade skins or steel for your hand, or else to steal you away in the traditional way, for you were fair and strong, a true spearwife in the first bloom of youthful beauty. But you had neither the patience nor the inclination to bend for them, to suffer yourself to be courted or bred like a bitch, too spirited and steadfast in your ways to give up your freedom for hearth and home, unwilling to trade your spear and nurse a passel of mewling brats at your breasts in its stead. The menfolk sneered at you for it, hating your cautious and prideful spurning of their affections, even as they sought you out, coveting you from afar and longing to be the brute to break you, to curb your wildness and breed fine strong babes from your womb. _“A maid at four-and-twenty...she's colder than a cave-dweller’s cunt...”_ they muttered, patching their wounds and consoling themselves with crude words at your expense, _“Aye, she’s a frigid little bitch. I’d rather stick my cock in a crevasse, truth be told. It'd be a damn sight warmer down there.”_ In time, most of them learned to avoid you, careful of their pride and wary of your sharp eyes, the cool appraisal of your gaze, or the rare sting of your tongue, on the rare occasion that you deigned to acknowledge the existence of your would-be suitors. Some were too bold, or else too brash and foolish, and you had broken more than one decent spear over a roving hand before you turned eight-and-ten, bemoaning the loss of a good weapon as your amorous foe howled over their shattered fingers.

And so, you became the _Ice Queen_ , and in time it was as though you had no other name, as though you had been carved from the roots of the Frostfangs and shaped from snow and ice into a marble effigy of womanhood, rather than birthed from betwixt your mother’s legs. Even Mance Rayder, who ruled from the Wall to the Land of Always Winter, bowed his head in gracious acknowledgement of your title, the King Beyond the Wall paying quiet homage to the Ice Queen, when you rallied your people to his cause.

Thinking of Mance now, of that great host scattered to the winds by the might of the south, you cannot withstand the salty heat of tears welling behind your eyes, that bittersweet warmth spilling forth to sting your cheeks and freeze upon your skin. You weep for him shamelessly, wandering alone and unseen, with only the weatherbeaten trees as witness to your grief. Tears are a woman's weapon, they say, but you had always scorned wailing for weakness, and even now you would rather die than weep for yourself, for the pain of your battle-worn body or the weariness of your dragging limbs as you press onwards through the frozen wastes. Nay, not for yourself, but for your people and your king, for what should have been, for the unfulfilled promise of sunlight and laughter and a summer that will never end. The Long Night is coming, the age of men at an end and their days numbered, and the last of the Free Folk will not live to see the dawn.

You will die here, sooner rather than later, and if you rise again it will be as one of _them_ , as an undead shade lumbering in the wake of the Great Other’s vast army, a blue eyed corpse condemned to serve, to destroy and bring the known world to its knees. Aye, it is a cruel irony, a fitting and most heinous fate for one whom had never abased herself to the mastery of any living man.

Pushing such morbid imaginings to the back of your mind for the moment, you press on, a stiff and endless trudge through the forest, your steps halting and aimless, pained by the exhaustion of your limbs and the aching legacy of battle. You haven't dared take stock of your wounds, fearing the worst, but your body feels like one gigantic welted bruise from head to toe, and you suspect that your left ankle is twisted or perhaps even fractured. At first, during that mindless and vaguely chaotic retreat, you had paid it little heed, too intent on fleeing for your life to worry about the sharp nagging pain...but, as the hours wore on, you were forced to slow your pace and your movements are now clumsy and hampered, the pain diminishing, dulling to a numb ache that is both troubling and somewhat of a relief. The rational part of your mind knows that you should rest, that you must tend to your injuries and allow yourself a little respite, time to heal and recover your strength, but you push forward with dogged zeal, grim-faced and shivering beneath the watchful trees.

_So cold…_

The constant shuddering of your body beneath its heavy fur coverings is exhausting and mildly perturbing. Born and raised beyond the Wall, you are no stranger to the cold, to the snow and ice, to the harshness of this rugged land. The chill caress of the northern winds was your lullaby in the cradle, as familiar and almost soothing as your mother’s voice. By the counting of the southron wise men in their grey robes, you have lived nine summers, and those same old fools had deemed this last one the longest in living memory...but it is cold and dark in the Land of Always Winter, in the haunted forests and misty fjords of the true north, and you cannot help but bark out a mirthless laugh when you think of those plump lordlings, drinking their wine in the balmy sunshine. What do they know of the passing of the seasons, these men who have never felt the worst of it? Their winters are all bark and no bite, despite the stories they tell to scare their children. Tales of the Long Night and the White Walkers, of the First Men and the Children of the Forest, of giants and grumpkins and snarks, cannibals and direwolves and ice spiders as big as hounds.

 _Ours_ , you think, your heart swelling with a strange pride and bittersweet dread, _Winter is ours, and all that comes with her, for good or ill. The southron kings would rather murder each other for their ugly throne and slaughter our people like sheep than fight for the living. We are alone in this...we have always been alone…_

But despite your forbearance, the proud strain of true northern grit in your blood, you cannot keep yourself from shivering now, huddled within your damp furs, your breath ghosting out like a plume of foggy smoke from beneath the hood of your frozen mantle. It is as though the very air is laced with ice, your lungs burning with each laboured breath, your vision blurred and your chest heaving as you trudge through deep drifts of packed snow and muddy slush. This isn't the cold you know, the cold you have borne with little complaint since birth...this is something darker, _deeper_ , setting your pulse to racing in a futile and instinctive effort to send the vital warmth of your lifesblood pumping ever faster around your body, even as the clawing fingers of frost rend at your skin, chilling the very marrow in your bones. Every step is a struggle now, every breath an agonising fight for survival, as you plough forth through the snow with careless lumbering haste, blinded by the misty ice in your vision, your strength failing, your limbs sluggish and insensible.

_If I can just...get out of here...out of the forest...to the Fist...then perhaps I can...I can…_

But your thoughts fade into a dull haze, your mind clouding over, and it is all you can do to hold on to that fleeting hope of salvation as you sink down into the snow at last, spent and shivering. Your knees buckle, your ankle giving way, and you collapse to the ground in a graceless heap of furs and flesh, cushioned by a deep snow-drift at the foot of the nearest tree, a an ancient weirwood. At first, the snow is a solid crushing weight over you, around you, the gaping hole of an open tomb dragging you into its depths to a frigid end, and you fight it, scrabbling against the soft powder as it gives and shifts beneath your mittened hands.

_Please…_

You roll over, wheezing with the effort, your hood falling back as you tilt your face to the weirwood, the tears freezing on your swollen cheeks, weeping and keening in the shrill breathless voice of a child. The gods are silent, the carved whorls of the weirwood unmoved by your helplessness, your grief, and you raise your red-rimmed eyes to the imposing canopy of the forest instead. The branches are stripped bare, stretching out to the pitch-black vista like skeletal hands, and the sky is dark, starless, a pitiless void stretching out at every point of the compass.

Oblivion is bittersweet, a strange sort of bliss, and you surrender to the cold embrace of the snow at your back with a huffing sigh of defeat, closing your eyes to the world. It isn't so bad, in the end; the snow cradling your broken body in its pillowy embrace, and now you are ready to sleep, to rest, to give up your tenuous hold on life and lay down your spear. 

Your pulse slows, stills, and there is silence, but for the thin whistling call of the wind, and the ragged panting gasps of your last breath. 


	2. Chapter 2

_You were sleeping, dreaming, and oh, it was the sweetest thing...warmer than spring and softer than the skin of a young shadowcat...so very sweet…_

The thin veil of your eyelids flutter, their insides pink and shadowed with hazy spots of light, as though you have gazed into the sun for a moment too long and etched its bright shape upon your aching irises. The laboured rasp of your breath quickens, your lungs burning, starved of air, and you suckle eagerly at the breeze as its familiar chill ghosts against your parted lips, a thin layer of frost cracking and melting from your face at the slightest shift of your body. You are risen, reborn, nurtured deep within the roots of the weirwood tree, blooming to life, pushing up from the snow like a flowering bud.

_Alive…_

Your fingers twitch, flex, stiff and numb within the damp folds of your mittens, as cold and brittle as icicles, but still there, still whole and free from the black dread of frostbite, for now. Two hands, five fingers apiece, thank the gods. You will hold a spear again, if you live through the night.

_Don't think about it...just breathe...breathe, nice and slow, easy now…_

The warmth of that half-remembered dream is already fading, almost gone from your foggy thoughts as you come to your senses, come _alive_ , but you cling to it all the same, to that false promise of spring. There is a treacherous part of your mind that longs to dream again, to sleep, to slip into the blissful stupor of slumber and forget your woes. It would be so easy, so fucking sweet, like dipping into the dizzying heat of a hidden geyser, one of those secret cave-pools where the water runs hot, bubbling to the surface from within the rocks.

_No…_

_Stay awake, damn you...stay awake..._

You ball your hands into fists, your knuckles bulging white and taut, your fingers stinging as the blood rushes to the joints afresh, the sharp pain bringing a muted hiss to your lips. _A good pain_ , you tell yourself, thriving on the sensation, quietly savouring the exquisite agony as undeniable proof of your survival. The rest of your body is numb, frozen in place, and you focus on your hands for the moment.

_Slow and steady, one step at a time...don't jump from the nest before you can fly, Birdie..._

You huff out a crazed snarl of laughter, close to tears, a wet sheen of mingled relief and despair pricking behind your eyes like needles, seeping from beneath the tight squeeze of your lids. For a moment, you fear that you might go mad, and you grit your teeth until the back molars creak beneath the pressure, summoning the last surge of strength in your body to pull forward, to raise your hands to your face, wanting to shed your sodden mittens and touch your skin, to feel the salty warmth of your tears beneath your fingertips. Only…

_You can't move._

Not an inch, save for the tremulous flex of your fingers, your hands opening and closing with the fitful rhythm of a tiny bird beating its wings against the wind. Your breath catches, hitching in your throat with a harsh insistence, and you strain up again, arching your back, fighting the numb paralysis of your limbs, to no avail. There is an icy crust sealing your eyelids to the upper swell of your cheekbones, but it melts away now, your bittersweet tears easing the way, until a pale light permeates your blindness, and you finally wrench your eyes open with a gasping whimper. It is dark in this part of the woods, just as it had been when you collapsed into the snow, but the quiet gloom of the copse is aglow with an unnatural glimmering phosphorescence, a white-blue light without visible source, emitting neither warmth nor comfort. Your pupils dilate as you stare into the clearing, struggling to focus in the dim brightness...and then you remember your current predicament, with a sudden unpleasant clarity, and your chin drops to your breast, your gaze drifting reluctantly from the light to your frozen body…

_And what you see, when your aching eyes adjust, is the final nail in the coffin of that tranquil death-dream...the shroud of sleep and tranquil surrender torn asunder, rotting away to lay bare the bleached bones of the nightmare beneath it all, a horror from the darkest reaches of your imagination...from one of those gleefully fearful tales, first heard at your mother’s breast, at your grandmother’s knee…_

You are upright, your back pressed to the solid trunk of the weirwood, the thick soles of your heavy fur-lined boots raised several inches from the ground. The sudden shift in position is vaguely bewildering, your vision blurring over again, your head swimming as you struggle to comprehend it, and you would have collapsed into the snow once more...if not for the ropes binding you to the tree, the taut ligatures holding you in place, wound tightly around your torso and arms. Your legs are free, dangling above the misshapen snowdrift, but you can scarcely feel them when you try to kick out, so numb and frozen with cold and fear that you might as well be a cripple for all the good of it. The ropes are biting into you, cutting into your wrists and waist, lashed so tightly around your hips that you can feel the firm grasp of your restraints even through the layers of fur and leather covering your body. And then, with a fresh jolt of terror, you realise that...those are not ropes...not the familiar roughspun braids of hide, hair, and hemp that you had learned to weave with your own hands as a young girl...

_No...no, not ropes…_

_Silk._

There is a shrill keening sound, a whimpering cry, and it takes you a moment to realise that it is _you_ , that you are _weeping_ , crying out in a pathetic mewling voice, panicked and mindless. And then, as if in answer to your call, a high-pitched insectile chittering fills the air, stilling the blood in your veins, the unholy cacophony rising from within the close press of trees on either side of the weirwood. Heart pounding fit to burst, you will yourself to be quiet, sinking your teeth into your tongue to silence your cries, a primitive knowledge quelling your fierceness and your will to fight, fear reducing you to the unenviable status of the hunted, a soft-bellied little thing at the mercy of a monstrous predator.

_A fly...at the mercy of a spider…_

_Ice spiders, packs of ice spiders, big as hounds...nay, bigger than that...bigger than a horse...large and strong enough to ride, or they said._

_A fitting and most terrible mount for the Great Other, for his blue-eyed vassals and their undead slaves._

You are caught in a web, quite literally, and all you can do is wait for the end, anticipating the final blow, quaking against the weirwood and staring at the treeline in muted wide-eyed horror. A thousand eyes seem to meet your gaze all at once, milk-white and unblinking in the dense shadows, and you want so badly to turn away, to spare yourself the sight of those pale bloated things shifting in the darkened, deadly and graceful. But you cannot move, not even to twist your head to the side, let alone tear your eyes away from the mesmerising tangle of silken threads, of sinewy limbs and the oozing gleam of venomous fangs…

**"Oh _gods_...kill me, just kill me, do it _now_ , please...oh please, _please_...I’ll go mad, I can't _stand_ it…”**

Something crawls from between the trees ahead of you, a grotesque _thing_ with too many eyes and too many legs, its vast pulsating body filling your vision, devouring every last shred of hope and sucking that dim-blue light into its maw, until there is only darkness and despair. Finally, with the frantic effort of a child pulling a blanket over their head to keep the monsters at bay, you snap your eyes _shut..._

And then, from overhead, from all around and inside your own _head_ , there comes a series of flinty splintering _cracks_ , like the tinkling crystalline icicles in a cavern and the deep explosing collapse of an avalanche all at once. A fissure breaking open in the ice, yawning and spreading, a crevasse opening beneath your feet to swallow you up into silence...

_You open your eyes._

The spider is gone. All of them, gone, melted away into the night. But your relief is short-lived, a mere flutter of soft sagging joy, before your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach when you see _him_ , the rider standing tall and proud in place of his eldritch steed. 

 _The Night King_ , you've heard him named, his title whispered in every corner of the true north from the shores of the Shivering Sea to the Wall itself, and you cannot deny the regal bearing of his form, despite the instinctive repulsion you feel when you see him there, an inherent loathing prickling at your skin and the fine hairs at your nape. He is pale and terrible, the points of his crowned brow emitting an eerie light as he stands there, as poised and still as a statue, glowing like a star in the midst of the clearing. 

You remember...your mother...or perhaps it was your father _(oh, who knows, who fucking cares?)_ , pointing out the constellations and telling you that the stars are a lie, that every star you can see in the night sky is dead or dying, has long since imploded and winked out into nothingness before its light reaches the world below. And in this moment, you can well believe it, because here is the proof of that sweet betrayal, the mournful light of an entire dying cosmos reflected in those bright blue eyes, in the shivering phosphorescent glow of the Night King's gaze. You've had cold steel at your throat that felt warmer than his steady appraisal, his eyes never leaving your face as he slowly cocks his head to the side, observing you with the quietly baleful air of a predatory bird. 

The sound comes again, stiffening your spine and bringing a panting whine to your lips, your breath so cold that it stings your mouth as it plumes out to fog the air, crystallising before your very eyes. But you hear... _words_ , where before there was only the creak of ice...and a voice as cruel and unyielding as winter, coiling within your shattered thoughts like tendrils of thick smoke;

 **"Spearwife...you are _mine_."** 


End file.
